


Chasing a Memory

by jhoom



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (implied) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brainwashed Bucky, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Frottage, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Somnophilia, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, handjobs, winter soldier/steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24762574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jhoom/pseuds/jhoom
Summary: The Winter Soldier has been given his next target: Captain America. But when he arrives, something holds him back and instead of killing him, things take an unexpected turn.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 34
Kudos: 118





	Chasing a Memory

**Author's Note:**

> not gonna lie, this is my first stucky ficlet and i might be hooked lol
> 
> canon!divergent, takes place before TWS, the winter soldier has been sent to take out captain america, but when he gets there he has second thoughts
> 
> [here's the tumblr version of the story](https://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com/post/621111000216846336/chasing-a-memory) and feel free to yell at me about stucky [@jhoomwrites](http://jhoomwrites.tumblr.com) :)

He’s studied the target extensively. The suit sparks something in him; the red, white, and blue, that shield, the cowl, all of it scream familiar. The Soldier is good at ignoring those rare moments when he remembers something he can’t explain, that he knows deep in his gut that he isn’t allowed to have. 

He is a vessel, a tool, for what HYDRA wants from him; they don’t want his memories, scattered and broken as they are. 

Study tells him the target could very well best him in a fight. He’s too strong, too fast, too smart to beat in hand-to-hand combat without the Soldier walking away from it bruised and broken. If at all. While his survival is not necessarily required, it would be ideal. His handlers would prefer him back in one piece, and the Soldier is not sure he’d come back from that fight at all. 

Worse, he cannot guarantee he’d take out his target before succumbing to injuries. 

A fight is out of the question. He will resort to other methods. 

It would be smart to simply shoot this man, this “Captain.” The name, the title, sound wrong, but lacking any reason _why_ they are wrong when the files in front of him clearly tell him otherwise, he ignores the discomfort. Why should he care what they call this man? 

He’ll be dead soon enough. 

But when he loads his sniper rifle, aims it at the target’s head, he can’t bring himself to fire. It seems _wrong_ in a way he cannot fully process. The idea that he doesn’t _want_ to kill the target never enters his head - when have his _wants_ meant a damned thing? - so he’s left coming up with other explanations. 

After much thoughts, an explanation settles in. This man deserves something more _intimate_ than a bullet from a mile away. No, it _must_ be up close, it _must_ be the Soldier’s own hands that do it. 

He puts the rifle away. He won’t need it. 

It takes a while to find a drug potent enough to do the trick. The Captain is strong, stronger than the Soldier even, and a regular tranquilizer will do nothing. But the Soldier is patient, he finds what he needs. 

During a fight, the Captain is too busy punching through nameless men to notice the sting of the dart hitting his neck. 

His adrenaline must power him through the fight, the debriefing, the drive back to his temporary quarters. The Soldier is impressed that the Captain makes it that far, and more impressed that he even has time to shower before collapsing into his bed. He worries, briefly, that the drug was not strong enough, that he’d miscalculated. 

But no, he’s watched this man sleep ~~hundreds~~ dozens of times. He’s out cold, his body so limp he _must_ be feeling the effects at last. 

… And they won’t last long, either. 

The Soldier only takes a few guns and knives with him. He doesn’t intend to use the guns (intimate, he wants it to be up close, he wants to _feel_ the knife sinking into his flesh, wants to _feel_ his flesh hand squeezing the life out of him), but he can’t remember the last time he was without a firearm on his person. It makes him uneasy, so he takes a few. 

He doesn’t bother with silence when he breaks the window and climbs into the apartment. The Captain doesn’t even stir when the Soldier makes a point of stomping over to the bed. His heart rate is steady, loud, deafening, and his chest rises and falls evenly. 

The knife sings as he pulls it from its sheath. It glistens in the moonlight shining through dusty windows. The Soldier’s heart is in his throat as he takes one step, two, three to the bed. He looks down at the Captain, pictures carving him apart piece by piece. 

He pictures it… but his hand never moves to enact that fantasy. 

He glares down at his uncooperative metal arm and wonders if it’s a malfunction. Angry, he snatches the knife with his good arm… and finds he still cannot lift it. He stands there five minutes, ten, an hour and still gets no closer to killing the helpless man before him. 

When the knife falls to the ground, unused and dry, it almost makes the Soldier jump in shock. 

It’s so loud in the quiet space that even the Captain responds, though it’s nothing more than a grunt as he rolls onto his back. 

He looks helpless like this, despite the lithe muscles barely hidden by his thin shirt. He looks almost at peace, though the Soldier sees minuscule lines around his eyes, ones that denote sadness or pain. The thought stirs something inside of him, a fury and pain that match the Captain’s. 

Huh. Strange. 

The Soldier studies the Captain more, eyes tracing every plane until he’s memorized each one. It doesn’t take long, almost like he already knows them all and is becoming re-acquainted with them more than anything else. That makes sense, though; he spent many hours studying his target. 

His eyes eventually settle on plush lips. 

Before he can process it, he’s taking off his armor. He discards his weapons as easily as the rest, the first time he’s been unarmed in… ever, as far as he knows. It scares and thrills him, but he doesn’t protest. His body and instincts have not led him wrong before, and he follows them now. 

Naked and laid bare, he climbs onto the bed. 

The mattress shifts under his weight and the Captain frowns. He’s still drugged, still too far under to do much more than make muffled noises. The Soldier takes advantage of his weakness, pulls the thin blanket aside and straddles him. He likes the position, it gives him advantage and almost balances out his lost weapons. 

His cock, a part of him so long neglected he barely notices it most days, is hard and leaking where it’s pressed against the Captain’s thigh. He doesn’t understand that, the desire this man has elicited with so little effort on his part he doesn’t even know the Soldier is there. 

He remains there, occasionally rubbing his erection against the Captain and enjoying the _feel_ of it, and stares down at the Captain. The Captain might not be capable of noticing his presence, but his body does; his cock slowly fills as well, and it’s sparks a moan from the Soldier. 

The Captain finally blinks open his eyes, sleep clouding them enough that the Soldier doesn’t worry. 

And still, he’s nearly gutted when he sees recognition spark there. 

“Bucky?” the Captain slurs. He squints adorably in the dark, uncoordinated hands coming up to grab the Soldier’s hips. He notably does not attempt to push him away; if anything he holds him in place. 

Bucky. Who’s Bucky? What’s a Bucky? Why does that word, that name, why does it _hurt_? 

It’s a trick, he decides, and to stop that trick from getting him killed, he leans down and kisses the name right out of the Captain’s mouth. 

It does the job, drawing sleepy moan after moan from the Captain. He sighs happily and settles back against his pillow, eyes drooping shut. He does move his hips against the Soldier’s, though, chasing the same friction the Soldier craved moments ago. 

Still craves, now that it’s back. 

“Fuck,” the Captain whispers, but then he says no more. He lies there, limp but hard as the Soldier takes over. 

He doesn’t know what his body is doing, but it does it of its own accord anyway. It thrusts down against the Captain’s pliant body, finds and takes pleasure in the the feelings the movement gives him. Somehow worse, he loves chasing the breathy moans he can force out of the Captain. It’s pure ecstasy to hear them, to know he caused them. 

He comes from the mere thought of it, the power he holds over the sleeping Captain. It hits him so hard he whimpers, the first noise he’s made since climbing on the bed, and it startles him to find the Captain mouthing at his neck. 

“‘S good,” the Captain mumbles. It sounds like his tongue is numb. It very well may be. “Keep going?” 

There is tactically no reason for him to listen to his target, to take his orders. There is nothing to gain from compliance, yet he takes his real arm and wiggles it down the Captain’s sweatpants and boxers. He is not gentle as he jerks him off, and he is fascinated as he watches sweat pour from the Captain’s brow; he is not gentle, but the Captain likes it anyway. 

“Bucky,” he whines into the Soldier’s skin. “Buck…” 

He licks the Captain’s come from his fingers when it’s over, kisses the dopey grin on the other man’s face. Both actions are absurd to him, but he follows the impulse to do both. Muscle memory, almost. 

This is the first target he’s leaving alive, but as the Soldier re-dresses, he knows he won’t be killing him. No matter how intimately he tried, he doesn’t think he could make the blades cooperate. He will simply have to report his failure to his handlers and accept his punishment. 

He takes one last look at the Captain, asleep once more. He looks peaceful, more so than when the Soldier first arrived. And then the Soldier leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> bonus scenes: 
> 
> hydra agents: did you take care of captain america?  
> winter soldier: oh yeah i took real good care of him  
> hydra: .... dammit you fucked him didn't you
> 
> imagine steve waking up thinking he had a strangely intense sex dream about his dead best friend, but then finding the bed covered in come. he's so confused because that couldn't possibly all be from *him* could it?? and why would most of the come be *outside* of his clothes?? wtf??


End file.
